


Fever

by xCake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Dubious Consent, F/M, Multi, Sex Pollen, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-23 17:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCake/pseuds/xCake
Summary: Steve couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t.Not to his best friend’s girl.Steve x Reader // Bucky x Reader (mentioned)
Relationships: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 206





	1. Chapter 1

Two years today – your anniversary.

Not that it mattered, because the mission ran long. Even Steve didn’t get away from it unscathed, if the blood staining the shoulder of his uniform was any indication. You’d seen him hurt too many times over the years, but this time you felt guilty.

He’d gotten hurt keeping you safe.

His best friend’s girl.

Bucky must have returned to the compound by now, you were sure of it. He’d been radio silent for the last three weeks on an assignment god knows where, but what you did know was that he’d be getting back today; said he wouldn’t miss your anniversary for the world, the hopeless romantic that he was. _Your_ hopeless romantic.

You might have gone a little stir crazy as the days dragged on, missed him a little too much – so you passed the time by going on quick in-and-out missions in hopes that you’d get home and find him there waiting for you.

He wasn’t.

Each mission wound up being no more than a couple of hours, tops, except this one. You and Steve had been trapped here for the last day and a half. Too many Hydra agents to count. Too many fights for survival. Pinned down by the enemy, the two of you barricaded yourselves inside a too-large server room where the walls were thick enough to offer a modest layer of protection: two feet of metal and concrete, meant to safeguard Hydra’s most sensitive data.

The worst part wasn’t even that you were missing your anniversary. No, it was that you’d yanked an empty syringe from Steve’s back about twenty minutes ago and there was no way of knowing what mystery substance it contained. He hadn’t even noticed it, either, which made you wonder what the hell kind of pain tolerance he had. The stupid thing was just sticking out of him, needle about three inches long and yet he’d been completely fucking oblivious.

_How?_

Thankfully, Steve seemed to be doing okay, all things considered. His wounds would heal, of course. They always did. They always would. You tried not to worry, but you still felt guilty, so much you asked for the umpteenth time, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m _fine_, doll,” he said in exasperation, holding his cell phone and yours up toward the ceiling in hopes that one of them would pick up a signal. “I’ll let you know if anything changes, you know, like I said the last ten times you asked.”

You huffed a little as you attempted to access one of the computers, having already tried five of them with no success. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt. Especially when it’s my fault.”

He laughed at that, somehow, despite the fact that you were both trapped in here with no hope of rescue. No signal, no reception, no dice. Things looked pretty dismal, but he was ever the optimist. “I can already feel myself healing. Stop worrying, okay?”

Computer number six was also a failure.

* * *

Another twenty minutes passed, but nothing changed.

Well, at least, not that you noticed. Steve was burning up, but he didn’t say a thing – didn’t want to make you worry. He cared too much about you for that, cared more than he should have for his best friend’s girl. 

Always had. Always would.

Sweat dotted his brow as he watched you try computer after computer to no avail. He just couldn’t tear his eyes away; even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, you were illicitly gorgeous, far more attractive than you should have been to him. Hair tousled, eyeliner smudged, tight black catsuit on your body ripped in too many places to count, cuts and scrapes and bruises peeking through – all superficial. 

He didn’t like seeing you hurt, though, either, so when the heat creeped up his neck he wasn’t sure if it was from concern, claustrophobia, or carnal attraction.

“Anything?”

Steve’s question was simple, but he barely even recognized the sound of his own voice. Strained. Rough. Maybe because his throat was so dry.

When you glanced up from the screen and over at him, he forgot how to breathe. Bright eyes and a beautiful smile, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. All for him.

_Only_ for him, here, and sweet as sin.

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, popping the ‘p.’ 

It drew his attention to your mouth at the worst possible moment. As you focused back on the screen in front of you, you pulled your lower lip in between your teeth in thought, almost like you were _trying_ to tease him, like you were _trying _to drive him out of his fucking mind. The sight shot straight to his groin; brought attention to the fact that his pants were starting to get just a little too tight. 

Then you looked up again at the silence and caught him staring. Tilting your head to the side, you asked slowly, “Still feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, and then he cleared his throat – tried to clear his mind, too, but it didn’t work. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Steve didn’t like to lie, but he didn’t have a choice. Not here. Not when he felt like this.

Your fingertips stilled over the keyboard as you studied his face a little more closely, and then you took a few steps toward him. “Are you sure? You look a little flushed.”

Your keen scrutiny only made him even hotter – made him want to escape before he did something he’d regret. He was already toeing the line.

But he couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t.

Not to his best friend’s girl.

With your approach came the heady scent of your perfume, and his resolve weakened even more – particularly when you pressed the underside of your wrist to his sweaty forehead. Your skin was far cooler to the touch than it should have been, and the physical contact sent a pleasurable chill through him.

“Something’s wrong,” you said with a frown, swapping your wrist for your palm, and then you brought both hands to either side of his flushed face. “You’re way too hot, Stevie.”

You spoke his name so softly, so gently – like a lover, like a balm. 

_Stevie._

On your lips, it sounded like honey.

Steve’s temperature already ran hotter than yours because of the serum, but you were long used to it because Bucky was the same. Ironic, really, that the only person on the face of the earth who’d be able to tell the difference without a thermometer was what stoked the fire to begin with.

Well, you, and whatever the hell it was he’d been injected with.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, but the words felt foreign on his tongue. Wrong. He wasn’t fine. The way he leaned into your touch was evidence of that.

“Here,” your hand trailed down his back to help guide him to a nearby chair, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, “Sit down, okay? Tell me how you’re feeling.”

Ravenous. Touch-starved. Not fine at all.

Steve sank into the worn leather desk chair, but that proved even worse. Now he had to look _up_ at you – look up at your pretty little face and try not to imagine how you’d look straddling him, taking every inch of his cock.

Yeah, like that was possible.

He’d break you. How Bucky managed not to was beyond him.

“I’m hot,” Steve finally admitted. “It’s hot in here.”

A flimsy excuse. Even he knew it wasn’t. Something was wrong.

“Really? I’m actually kind of cold.” With a smile, you made a show of briskly rubbing your arms, probably to make him feel better – and then you teased, “Maybe you can warm me up, huh?”

_Don’t tempt me, sweetheart._

Your brows rose in surprise, but you laughed soon after.

Oh. Had he said that out loud?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

And it didn’t seem to bother you, either, because the concerned look in your eyes was still there and your jokes and laughter were a front. “Are you nauseous? Sick? Come on, talk to me. Please?”

Oh, he liked the sound of that. 

Steve quickly found himself wondering if that was how you sounded when you begged for more, begged for release, begged for something only Bucky was lucky enough to give you.

Imaginary pleas of _please, Stevie, please _echoed in his ears.

His eyes closed as your fingers threaded through his hair – an attempt to soothe the ache settling into his bones, perhaps. You quickly stopped, however, and he only realized why when he looked back up at you.

When had he taken hold of your wrist?

“What is it, Stevie?”

_Shit, honey, if only I knew._

But the words didn’t come. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and he noticed, then, how easily his fingers and thumb overlapped – how small and delicate you really were, not to mention how absolutely defenseless. Your eyes were impossibly soft as you gazed down at him with such concern, such _care,_ that he managed to wrench his hand away.

“I… I don’t feel right.”

“Can you describe it?”

You were worried about him, he knew, but you should have been worried about yourself for entirely different reasons. With you so close, he had no choice but to breathe in the irresistible scent of you. It drove him crazy.

_You _drove him crazy.

Through gritted teeth, Steve managed a rough, “Just find a way to get us out of here.”

“But you’re—”

“_Now_,” he barked, and you immediately jumped into action at his harsh tone.

Thirteen computers and counting.

* * *

Another ten minutes, and you were on computer number seventeen. Still no dice.

In between hurried keystrokes, you snuck glances over at Steve only to find him watching you like a predator might watch its prey. It unnerved you a little. Eyes dark and breathing laboured, he seemed much worse than before – overheating, but you didn’t dare check his temperature again. Your stomach had been in knots since he raised his voice with you, or maybe it started when he grabbed your wrist – a firm grip, one that might have left bruises beneath your shredded sleeve.

Why were you so anxious?

This was Steve. Captain America. Your boyfriend’s best friend. He’d never hurt you, at least not intentionally and you had a feeling that all of this had something to do with the mystery substance running through his veins.

That was when the computer dinged with a signal. At last. You might be able to get a message out, even if the reception was so poor. It was a short one, a quick and dirty ‘SOS’ along with your location. Command would send an extraction team for the two of you.

After you hit ‘send,’ you let out an audible sigh of relief. “Finally got a message through. Don’t worry, they’ll get us out.”

Something about that phrase snapped Steve’s resolve. He didn’t want to get out. 

No, he wanted to get _in_.

That was when your back slammed against the wall, so hard that the impact left you gasping for air. “What—”

But you couldn’t finish that sentiment because Steve’s lips were on yours, hot and wanting and unfamiliar – not at all like how Bucky kissed you, how Bucky _loved _you more than anything.

For a moment, you froze up, absolutely stunned by his behaviour. You came to your senses quickly, though, and shoved him hard in the chest to get him to stop – but only after a few frenzied tries did he finally break away.

Breaths coming out in short bursts, you croaked, “What the hell?”

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself against the wall with one arm above your head. His free hand came up to massage his temple, a distraction from the tightness of his pants. He’d caged you in – trapped you against him so deliciously and when he finally spoke, he sounded just as wrecked as he looked. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“I’m with Bucky,” you hissed, voice wavering. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Angry words laced with fear. 

He didn’t blame you.

But he couldn’t stop himself when his eyes dropped back to your mouth, and in an instant, he found himself wanting another taste, another touch. The fever burning hot fire through his body made it impossible to ignore, let alone resist any longer. What little self-control he had was gone.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he choked out, and then his hand was in your hair, too-tight grip allowing him to pull you in for another kiss. This time he was much less forgiving, almost bruising your lips in his need for you – lips so soft and pliable and _his._

Steve overpowered you with such ease, especially when he swept his tongue into your mouth to sample your sweetness straight from the source. Scalp stinging painfully, you put up a fight, at least until he gathered both your wrists in one large hand and pinned them none-too-gently to the wall. Pain – not a lot of it, but enough to sting, to smart, to leave more bruises. 

No matter how hard you struggled, you couldn’t break free.

Of course you couldn’t. You weren’t strong enough. Not against him.

You attempted to knee him in the groin anyway, a last resort, but he easily deflected it by shoving one of his thighs in between yours. Thick, corded muscle pressed hard against your clothed core, wrenching a strangled gasp from your throat.

“Steve,” you whimpered against his lips, still trying to break free from his hold: an exercise in futility. “Damn it, _stop_, let me go—”

But he didn’t. No, instead he kissed you again, muffling any other protests, any other objections – and moans, too, he soon discovered when you mistakenly ground against his thigh in another failed attempt of escaping.

Peppering your jaw with open-mouthed kisses, he murmured, “How am I supposed to stop when you sound so pretty?”

Pretty for him. All for him.

A shudder wracked your body at the feeling of his breath against your ear, at the low timbre of his voice – rough and full of desire.

You stopped fighting after that. 

And then you started to feel the heat, too. You felt the burn on your tongue, first, felt it prickle against your lips – uncomfortable, stifling heat, a fever that quickly made its way through your extremities, made your knees go weak, made you melt against him like butter. 

If Steve hadn’t been holding you up, you would have hit the floor.

“It’s too hot,” you whined, leaning back against the wall, revealing more of your throat for him to mark, to claim. The sharp, sudden ache between your legs was unbearable. “God, it _hurts_—”

“I know, baby,” he breathed against the saliva-slickened skin of your neck. “I know it does. I’ll make it better.”

Your arms were thrown carelessly around his neck, now; when had he even let you go? You didn’t know. You didn’t care. You just needed _him_, needed what he was going to give you like you needed air. 

An insistent tug around his collar – an unspoken plea, but the words soon followed, spilling from your mouth like a broken record. “Make it better, Steve, please make it better, Stevie, _please_—”

“Jesus, doll,” came his groaned reply as he all but yanked the zipper to your catsuit down, down, down between your breasts, and then the sleeves followed, fabric ripping along the seams. The moment you pulled your sports bra over your head, he palmed your breasts – left hot kisses and even hotter touches against your hypersensitive skin, and when he took a nipple into his mouth, you shivered.

“Not enough,” you gasped, fingers curling in his hair.

The taste of your skin was intoxicating – salty sweet with sweat and something he couldn’t quite place.

Longing, perhaps. Or dread.

Teeth raked against the pert bud and again your knees gave out, but Steve held you steady – a welcome reminder of his thigh between yours. This time, you ground down against him purposely, far too impatient and needy to wait for more.

You just couldn’t stop. Not that you even wanted to anymore.

With your free hand, you blindly fumbled with his belt and, somehow, it loosened. His fly was next, frantically unzipped until you had enough leeway to slide your hand into his boxers. As soon your fingers wrapped around him, Steve let out a shaky breath and met your eyes with a shared, albeit fleeting thought—

This was wrong.

But neither of you could stop.

You shoved his pants down below his ass, freeing him from the constraining fabric. His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, and you smoothed your thumb over the leaking slit.

“_Fuck_, sweetheart,” he swore, sending a surge of heat straight to your core.

You wanted this – wanted him.

Steve stripped the rest of your catsuit off in about two seconds flat. He half tore it from your body in order to reveal your soft skin and perfect curves – not that he had a chance to really appreciate them, however, because with a flick of his wrist your panties were in shreds on the floor and you’d slung one leg around his waist.

So fucking eager. He loved it.

He hiked your thigh up higher – allowed you better access to line him up, and when the head of his cock glided through your slick folds, you breathed, “Make it better, Stevie.”

So he did.

Steve slid all the way inside of you in one fluid motion, to which your eyelids fluttered shut, head lulling back against the wall with a dull _thunk. _The pleasant burn of him stretching you out so beautifully had your fingernails digging into his shoulders, leaving angry red marks behind.

“That’s it,” Steve coaxed, his large hand cradling the side of your face. “There you go.”

The tight, velvety drag of your walls as he slowly withdrew drove you both absolutely insane – and then he slammed all the way back inside, punching the breath from your lungs.

“You— god, you feel so _good_, Steve, give it to me, I need you, _fuck me, Stevie_—”

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore, so blissed out of your mind already and he’d barely even started. With the his cock so deep inside you, tip snug against your cervix, Steve couldn’t think straight either – and hearing you beg for him like this was better than he ever could have imagined.

He kissed you, then, all teeth and tongues, swallowing every single one of your pleas. Your arms slowly came to rest around his neck, and with unsteady yet practiced flair, you jumped up the tiniest bit – jumped up into his arms, and sure enough, he caught you.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why you knew he would.

Bucky.

A train of thought quickly forgotten as both your legs wrapped around his waist. Hands palming your ass, now, Steve fucked up into you – fucked you to pieces, and then he kissed you back together.

“Fill me up,” you gasped against his lips.

_Jesus._

You didn’t have to ask him twice, especially when he felt the tell-tale flutter of your walls around his cock. You were close, and your soft, breathy whimpers only confirmed it.

“Gonna come for me, baby?”

“Yeah,” you moaned. “God, I’m so fucking _close—_”

Steve’s thrusts started to falter, then, and his fingertips dug into your hips. He left more bruises, but the mix of sensations was too much for you to handle and with a strangled cry, you fell apart, walls clenching down around him – desperately trying to milk him dry.

Even your body wanted him to come inside.

It pushed him over the edge, the knowledge that even on the most primal level you wanted him to fill you up – a conscious decision, but an instinctive one, too. With a soft groan, he pushed in as deep as he could go and spilled hot inside of you, marking your insides like a brand.

As he came down, exhaustion hit him like a wave. He set you down gently, but then he held one of his hands to the wall – kept himself from falling.

He felt weak, and so did you.

Chest heaving, you slid to the floor in post-coital bliss, cum dripping down the insides of your thighs. Steve wasn’t nearly as winded, and of course he wasn’t. He had the serum coursing through his veins, just like Bucky.

Bucky.

_Bucky._

“Oh god, Steve,” you choked out, staring up at him in horror. “What did_— _What did we do?”

Steve’s eyes widened in shock, the haze finally starting to clear.

Two years today – your anniversary.

Not that it mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BY POPULAR DEMAND 💀💀💀

Bucky knew something was wrong the minute he laid eyes on you.

You wouldn’t lay eyes on _him_. And neither would Steve.

He came to extract the two of you when he found out you were in trouble – spent minutes upon hours waiting for you to come back, nerves on edge, wondering why you hadn’t responded to his calls and texts until he finally stormed to Command to find out where his girlfriend was. He knew you were on a mission, of course; you often were, but you should have been back hours ago.

Two years today – your anniversary. Not that it mattered. 

Bucky came to help you, but even he felt helpless.

Catsuit torn, half-ripped at the seams. Bruises all over your neck and shoulders, but not from a fight.

Something had been done to you. He knew what, but he didn’t know who.

You flinched when he touched you, even when it was just to wrap you in a blanket. Delicate. Shattered. Broken. Bucky whispered apologies to you with his heart beating harshly in his chest, all silent nerves and tender concern because he just didn’t know what else to say.

Neither did you, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to say a single word. Not even a ‘sorry,’ and that made you feel so much worse.

When you got back to the compound, you went straight for your shared apartment – bypassed medical in spite of his protests, so he offered you the bed, because what else could he do but give you your space? You could barely stand to be near him, let alone Steve or the five other agents on the plane. All men.

Although he’d never be able to understand, Bucky could most certainly empathize. He was scared for you. Not for himself. He had no way of knowing the truth.

His heart ached when he heard your sobs echo from the shower, but he didn’t know what to do.

It ached even more when you came out twenty minutes later, bag packed and already half out the door.

“I’m gonna go for a couple of days,” you croaked, voice rough from crying. “I need to go. I’m sorry, Buck. It’s not you.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he told you so softly, so gently, even with his stomach in knots. “I know.”

What else could he do but let you go?

He reached out to wipe the tears from your cheeks, but stopped halfway through when you squeezed your eyes shut and let out a shuttering breath. Fingers curling back into his palm, his hand slowly dropped back to his side. Why was his throat so dry?

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay?” he called out – well, rasped, more like – as you took the final few steps out the door. He tried to sound strong for you, but he knew it didn’t work. Not really. “I love you.”

The sad, teary smile you gave him did nothing to alleviate his fears, but he did his best not to worry.

Then again, Bucky had no reason to believe that you didn’t love him, too.

* * *

You didn’t stop driving until you started to nod off from exhaustion. Then you had no choice. Just like before. Just like the cause of all of this. 

Right?

The motel you stopped into was in some middle-of-nowhere town in Rhode Island, hours away from the compound, from Bucky, from Steve. Rain dipped incessantly against the rooftop, bitter cold sinking straight into your bones. A far cry from the warm home you kept with Bucky. 

Fight or flight. What a joke. You’d always thought yourself a fighter, especially considering your line of work, but you weren’t. Not when it mattered, and this time, it mattered too much.

You couldn’t even look at Bucky, you felt so ashamed. Couldn’t even say a single fucking word, too caught up in your own stupid mind to put his needs first – his _happiness_ first. You ran away from him, he should have ran. He should have left. He should have spared himself from having to know.

This was going to devastate him. How could you tell him what you’d done? He’d already been hurt so much. He didn’t deserve this, but you didn’t deserve him.

You should have able to resist. 

But you didn’t. No, you _liked_ it. You got off on it. You begged Steve to make it better, and oh, he had. Your skin flushed hot at the memory – at the sin.

Just the thought of him was enough to soak your panties, but they were already soaked through with what you told him to give to you – what you begged him to, and sure enough, milky white dribbled down your thighs while Bucky wrapped you in a blanket, wrapped you in his love.

Even though you’d taken a shower to get his best friend off of your skin, Steve would still be inside of you. Inside your body. Inside your mind.

But you couldn’t stop.

A gasp escaped your lips as your own fingers parted your folds, feeling the slickness he’d left behind. You’d begged him to fill you up – craved it, needed it like you needed air. Needed _him_, and every drop of cum he could offer you, like you were a goddess and your pussy was his fucking altar.

_Steve._

It had taken months before you’d been able to convince yourself, let alone Bucky to finish inside, because who knew how potent it would be? Birth control only went so far, and neither of you were ready for what might have happened if it failed. You were prepared, of course, but you weren’t ready.

_Stevie._

But _he’d_ done it without hesitation, without worry, without fear – drug induced, absolutely, but it stirred something in you that it absolutely shouldn’t have, and that scared you.

Sobs wracked your body as you came for the second time that day, the sting of betrayal burning just as hot as the fever.

_Make it better, Stevie, please—_

* * *

He should have been able to resist.

His best friend’s girl. Bucky’s sweetheart.

_Baby. Honey. Doll._

Not Steve’s, despite how easily the too-familiar words rolled off his tongue into your perfect, waiting mouth. He could remember how desperate he felt for a kiss, a touch, a taste – wanting, wanting, wanting until the he was about to combust, and then you spiralled into insanity right along with him.

La petite mort. 

Except it wasn’t a _little _death at all.

He’d never be able to forget the flushed, sweaty glow of your face; the beautiful part of your lips, a kiss-swollen ‘o’; the way you held his gaze, unwavering, pupils blown in a haze of lust as he fucked you senseless. And as the fever cleared, he’d been horrified by the marks he’d left on you, but he’d never be able to forget the taste of your skin, the sweetness of your tongue.

Addicting. Forbidden. Taboo.

But he couldn’t stop.

Steve’s hand wrapped around his cock as he steadied himself in the shower with the other, and it was all too easy to remember how your body felt against him. The soft, warm weight of you in his arms, the squeezing clutch of your legs around his waist, the tight velvet heat of your santicity.

_God, you feel so good, Steve._

You did too.

_Give it to me._

He’d give it to you until he had nothing left to give.

_I need you._

Steve’s hips stuttered, then, and he came with a low groan, forehead resting on his arm against the wall. A wash of sticky white dripped down the wet tile, holy water rinsing away the evidence of his sin.

_I need you, Stevie, please—_

But Bucky needed you, too.


End file.
